


3am

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Divorce, oh the angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: A year into their affair Greg comes clean, only problem is that Mycroft has other ideas.





	1. Chapter 1

He had to do it. He'd been putting it off for so long, there was always a reason. But last night, when he was being gently shook awake by Mycroft, it hit him that there just wasn't a good enough reason to put it off any more.

'It's three am, Gregory. You have to go.'

Greg rubbed his hands over his face and sighed.

'I don't want to,' he said, avoiding looking at the other man in case he wouldn't see the same emotions reflected there.

'If it's any consolation I don't want you to go either.'

Greg rolled over onto his side so he was facing Mycroft, 'So why don't I stay?'

Mycroft shook his head slowly, '...your wife...'

They rarely spoke about her, and on those rare occasions when they did, Mycroft was careful to be fair, always concerned about not hurting her. Which is why he was waking Greg at three am. Why he was avoiding meeting Greg's eye. Why Greg knew with utter certainty that he'd never loved anyone as much as he loved the man beside him.

Today. It would have to be today.

He reached out and cupped Mycroft's face before pulling him close and kissing him softly.

'Will I see you tonight?'

Mycroft still didn't look at him as he nodded.

Today, Greg told himself. This was the very last time he'd sneak out of Mycroft's bed in the middle of the night. The last time he'd lie about where he was. Today.

#

He hadn't meant to start an affair with Mycroft Holmes. He'd been married, reasonably happily, four lovely kids he would give his life for, a job he loved, a nice house and....and then Mycroft Holmes walked into his office.

Oh he was arrogant. And he was nothing special to look at. Receeding hair line, cheekbones that were too high and a smile that was just a smug twist of thin lips.

Greg hated him on site.

He tolerated him because of Sherlock, but the less time he spent with the elder Holmes the better as far as he was concerned.

But over time their meetings gained another element. Underneath the sneering and ice Mycroft turned out to have a dry and slightly off beat sense of humour which surprised Greg in those early days. Still did, even now. He was fiercely loyal and adored his little brother, willing to sacrifice his own career, time and even life for the consulting detective.

Which is how Greg ended up sitting in a hospital corridor with him on a rainy December night. While the staff wished each other Merry Christmas and Sherlock slept off his overdose, Greg and Mycroft sat side by side as their take away tea got cold and their phone batteries died.

'He'll be alright,' Greg said eventually.

'You can't know that.'

'He's always alright.'

Mycroft turned to look at Greg then and for the very first time his expression was entirely unguarded and Greg felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. But he didn't want to examine that feeling just then. He waited until Mycroft's parents arrived and then excused himself as politely as he could. 

He told himself it was exhaustion. Or adrenaline. Lack of sleep. The excitement of a case. Worry about Sherlock.

He told himself that at night as he slept beside his wife. He told himself that when they had sex and he imagined Mycroft's legs wrapped around him rather than hers.

He was still telling himself that a week later when he lay beside Mycroft, the sheets beneath them creased, the air full of all the things they were avoiding saying.

That was almost a year ago. It would be Christmas soon.

The thought that he could wake up with Mycroft on Christmas morning made him smile. But then he bit his lip as his thoughts turned to his children. Would they like Mycroft? Would Mycroft like them? 

He thought about his children as he parked his car and walked slowly to his own front door. They were the only thing he felt guilty about.

Today. It would be today.

The light was on in the kitchen and he walked through to find Caroline there, one hand curled around a mug of tea and the other holding a cigarette.

'You're late,' she said.

'Work.'

For the first time she shook her head and he knew then that she knew.

Slowly he sat down opposite her. And told her.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg walked slowly up the steps to Mycroft's front door, a hold all in one hand. He had barely slept in the three days since he'd ended his marriage, instead he'd kipped on the sofa, avoiding his wife until he came to terms with the fact that he'd actually done it. Or more honestly, until she'd packed a bag for him and told him to get out.

So there he was, at Mycroft's front door, unshaven in his rumpled suit. He closed his eyes. This was the day he'd waited for. The start of his new life. With Mycroft.

He hadn;'t told her he'd been having an affair with a man. He would have to eventually, that would be a conversation, a revelation for another day.

Lifting his hand he rang the bell.

It had surprised him at first that Mycroft didn't have a legion of staff to do his bidding, and the man always insisted on answering the door himself.

He looked pleasantly surprised to see Greg standing there, but as he surveyed the policeman his expression shifted slightly to one of displeasure.

'Gregory?'

'I left.'

There was no point in beating about the bush.

In his head he'd imagined Mycroft smiling and dragging him upstairs to bed, but Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly and took a moment to consider that statement.

'Somewhat impulsive,' he said and then, 'Where are you staying?'

For the first time since he'd made up his mind, Greg's certainty was shaken and he blinked several times.

'...here? I thought-'

'You were incorrect.'

And just like that Greg's legs were kicked out from under him and he could only stare at the other man.

'But...but we....'

'Yes and it was satisfying while it lasted. But I'm not in the habit of taking in waifs and strays.'

Greg felt his mouth open and close several times and then anger flared, 'I left my wife in kids for you!'

The look on Mycroft's face was one of pity, 'No. You left your wife and children for YOU.'

'But we-'

'I certainly never indicated that you should do so, so I fail to see how I should now be responsible for accomodating the wreckage of your life.'

'You...I have nowhere else to go.'

'Then you should have thought about that before making rash decisions.' Mycroft shook his head and then started to push the door closed, 'Good night, Detective Inspector.'

And Greg was left standing on the doorstep of the man he loved, the man who had just completely rejected him, with only the contents of a hold all to his name and no idea what to do now.

#

On the other side of the door Mycroft closed his eyes and took a moment to try and compose himself. Gregory had done the one thing Mycroft most wanted him to, which was also the thing Mycroft wanted him to do least.

And Mycroft had sent him away.

This was why he had never encouraged Gregory to leave his wife. It was somehow...safer that way. Less emotional entaglements.

Caring, after all, was not an advantage.


	3. Chapter 3

For the second time in one day Greg knocked on a door, but this time with no hope only the aching weight in chest that he couldnt seem to shift. This was not the door he wanted to open for him. 

There was the sound of the bolt being drawn back and then she was standing there in front of him. Her eyes narrowed and she blocked his way.

'So she didn't want you then?' Caroline sneered.

Greg hung his head, 'Please-'

'And you thought you'd come crawling back here thinking I'm going take someone else's cast offs?' she leaned forward when she spoke her voice was a low his, the anger in her eyes was real, 'Stay the fuck away from my house.'

'What about the kids?'

She actually laughed then, 'Do you really think they are going to want anything to do with you now?'

'You wouldn't tell them, that's not fair-'

'She's already told us,' a cold voice came from behind Caroline and Greg looked over her shoulder to see his two teenagers standing behind her. It was obvious Anna had been crying, her eyes were red rimmed and her face splotchy, but it was the reaction of fifteen year old Simon that was unexpected. 

The teen, tall and broad like his father, pushed his sister out of the way so he could charge through the door, shoving his father hard in the chest. Greg was so shocked he didn't have a chance to react, then then Anna was screaming and trying to pull her brother off their father, but the boy didn't let go until Caroline stepped in.

'Simon! Enough!'

The boy stopped struggling, but he didn't let Greg go for another few seconds, and when he did it was with another violent push that sent the police officer backwards. Anna immediately fled after her brother, but Caroline looked down on him with a cruel twist to her mouth.

'Maybe if you beg hard enough your whore might take pity on you. But I won't.'

And then she closed the door. Greg sat where he was on the path for a moment, struggling to breathe, and then eventually he picked himself up again, and slowly turned away, having no idea what he was going to do now.

#

'You've been sleeping in your office?' John was shocked.

Greg shrugged and took another mouthful of beer, 'Not much other option. Caroline won't let me back, the kids hate me and I can't afford a hotel, so until I find somewhere I can afford it's my office or under a bypass.'

'Shit! You can stay with us. It's only the sofa, but it's comfy enough.'

Shaking his head Greg pulled a face, 'I'd rather take the bypass.'

There was silence and Greg tried not to look at his friend, he could feel the next question hanging in the air between them.

'Greg, if I can ask...what happened between you?'

Swirling the beer in his glass Greg thought about his answer for a moment before deciding to be honest.

'I was seeing...somebody else.'

John had never been able to hide his emotions and the shock on his face clear. He struggled to form a response.

'How?'

'It didn't...I didn't go looking for it. It just happened.'

'How long?'

'About a year.'

'Christ,' John blew out a deep breath and leaned back in his chair.

'Don't tell Sherlock. If he works it out then...fair enough.'

'You should be fine, he's doing some project about bee pollen.'

Greg clicked his tongue, 'Hope he's not keeping those in the flat.'

Across the table John's expression darkened, 'He was warned what would happen after the incident with the swan.'

Despite how he was feeling Greg found himself smiling. Sherlock might be a genius, but he was utterly mad at times. It was like the Holmes men had filter. Sherlock terrorised London and Mycroft....he stopped smiling. He couldn't think about Mycroft right now.

'What about anyone at the yard? Donovan? Or Dimmock?'

'Sally has a new boyfriend and Dimmock's really into those Merchant Ivory dramas at the minute.'

It was John's turn to laugh. And then he pointed, looking suddenly pleased with himself.

'What about Mycroft. You get on well enough, right? He has the space and he's bound to owe you a favour.....what?'

Greg glanced back down at his glass again before speaking very softly.

'Who do think I was sleeping with?'

'FUCK OFF!'

John's shout attracted the attention of everyone in the pub and a woman at the next table tutted at them while the barman shot a warning glance in their direction. There was silence at the table for a long time as John processed the information and Greg kept his gaze firmly lowered.

'Mycroft? Seriously? Well, I can why you don't want Sherlock to know. But... How.....are you still together?'

Greg shook his head.

John seemed to understand that Greg wasn't quite ready to talk too much in depth about that and he let the subject drop for the safer topic of rugby. When it was time to leave John shrugged into his coat.

'Well what about C? I mean, it's a bit of a dump, but it's indoors and cheap and there are no eyeballs, at least not last I was down there. Even short term it's better than nothing. I'll talk to Mrs Hudson when I get back.'

Another grateful nod, 'Thanks John.'

John left and Greg ordered another pint.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg stared up at the peeling ceiling of the basement flat at 221 and listened to the noises that surrounded him in the semi darkness. The elderly pipes had a tendency to gurgle every time someone in the building ran a tap, and the boiler would fire up loudly and unexpectedly, causing Greg to start in shock, his nerves already stretched to breaking point through lack of sleep.

Baker Street was always busy and all day and night there were voices of passers by, cars, sirens, the muffled sounds of Mrs Hudson's TV programmes filtering down through the floor, and the occassional yelling match or minor explosion in B that shook the whole building and caused flakes of paint to drift down from Greg's ceiling.

If he'd been able to sleep it would have been enough to wake him.

As it was his clock was showing 3:47 when the front door slammed shut and the wooden stairs above were taken two at a time, heavy footsteps echoing loudly. Sherlock, his mind supplied.

He had only been in C for a week and he already could tell where everyone was in the building by the noises they made. Sherlock's movements were fast and often erratic, swift like a dancer, or a maniac. John was steady and direct, his movements controlled and never unneccessary. He didn't have the restless energy that Sherlock did, and he was the only one in the building who closed the front door quietly. Mrs Hudson was light on her feet and bird quick with her movements, her footsteps accompanied by a background of music and occassional yelling directed at Sherlock.

He surprised himself by having reached the point where he could tell who was opening the front door by the way they put the key into the lock. That drew a small smile out of him, it wasn't quite on a Sherlock Holmes level, but it was a start.

The smells took some getting used to. Mrs Hudson shopped on Mondays and baked on Tuesdays and Friday's, filling the building with the smell of biscuits that overrode the chemical smell that permeated everything. Thankfully, or worryingly, depending on how you looked at it, Greg had gotten used to that particular smell and it no longer gave him a headache. 

The building didn't smell familiar, not like his home...his old home, or like My-...he swallowed and blinked hard trying to clear that thought away. He lay there for another twenty minutes not moving, focusing instead on the soft strains of Sherlock's violin drifting down. It was suprisingly soothing and on the very, very rare occassions when he managed, through copious amounts of alcohol or sheer exhaustion, to fall asleep for a few hours in the dead of night, he would often wake with an unfamiliar melody in his head. It was...nice.

With a sigh he got up, not bothering to turn on the light, and crossed to the small single wardrobe in the corner, stretching up to reach for something at the very back of the top shelf. He pulled out the plastic bag and carried it over to his bed before he unwrapped it, removing the item inside.

Immediately he was overwhelmed by the smell of Mycroft. That citrus, spicy smell that was smooth and dark. He took a deep breath, holding the fabric up close to his face. It was the only thing he had of Mycroft's. A shirt Mycroft had once lent him after he spilled wine on his own, and Greg had forgotten to give it back. It was still ingrained with Mycroft's scent.

He knew, KNEW, he shouldn't do this to himself, that it wasn't helping him. But he needed it. Sometimes he just couldn't take it anymore and he needed to close his eyes and breathe in that scent and pretend that Mycroft was there, just so he could close his eyes and sleep for a little while.

He lay down, holding the shirt close to him and closed his eyes.

He would stop doing it. Tomorrow. Perhaps. Soon. Soon.

But not tonight. Not yet.


	5. Chapter 5

The house in Mayfair had never felt like a home to Mycroft. But then, he had never expected it to. It fulfilled all of his requirements, being close to work, close enough to Sherlock to keep an eye on him but far enough away that he wasn't faced with him at every second. His favourite restaurants were close by, as were the various embassies he dealt with daily and the building itself was, as his assistant was forever telling him, befitting of his role.

There was no doubt it was elegant. There had been no expense spared. But the tens of thousands spent on furniture and art had done nothing to make it feel close to a home. Despite the work of a team of professionals, it was still impersonal, nothing like the threadbare rugs and quirky nooks of his childhood home, and as far away from the mismatched furniture and overstuffed bookcases of the home his parents had resided in for the last thirty years. It irked him that Sherlock had managed to reproduce that comfort completely by accident, although if truth be told it was the reason Mycroft preferred to meet his brother at the Baker Street flat where he could, for a few moments at least, feel comfortable.

Not that he would ever admit that he felt comfortable in the clutter and unusual smell that his brother preferred to live amongst.

It struck Mycroft as he sat in front of an old film, that three am was a very lonely time.

All across London those who had someone would be fast asleep beside their lover. Or perhaps they were only coming home after a night out, giggling and whispering to each other in the back of a black cab. Perhaps they were making love in a warm bed.

Mycroft was doing none of those things.

DI Lestrade had been a mistake. Mycroft had known from the first night that it would not work, but he had allowed himself to indulge, knowing that there would be an end and making his peace with it before it got that far.

At least that is what he thought he had done.

He had not expected to LIKE the irritation he felt when he came across a pair of Gregory's disguarded socks on the floor of his otherwise immaculate bathroom. Or the scent of the policeman's cigarettes that drifted inside when he went to smoke on the terrace. Mycroft had never found out what they were. Something strong and French that Gregory brought back every time he visited his parents. He should have been horrified the evening they made sangria out of a '96 Château Latour, but there was something enchanting about Gregory's impish smile that pushed Mycroft to agree.

He hadn't expected to like seeing the man's name come up on his phone, and hadn't anticipated the thud in his chest every time he saw him smile.

But he had allowed himself to enjoy those things for what they were, knowing that they would end.

One thing he could never have anticipated was Gregory Lestrade standing on his doorstep, bag in hand, telling him that he'd left his wife. 

That had not been the plan.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets Mycroft for the first time since breaking up

He'd known it would happen eventually. London wasn't as big as people liked to think, and initially Greg had dreaded it, then braced himself for it, and then, as the days at Baker Street turned into weeks he started to jump every time the door opened.

Even as each day passed until suddenly it was four days before Christmas, he wasn't naive enough to think that would last forever. One day Mycroft Holmes would come to Baker Street adn there was every chance that Greg would run into him. He knew from bitter experience that the first encounter with an ex was always the hardest. So he was looking forward to that experience being over and he couldn't settle until it was.

And so each time he left or arrived at the flat (he refused to think of it as 'home') he took a steadying breath and prepared to come face to face with the man who rejected him.

But, as prepared as he was to face that encounter, or even at work, he wasn#t prepared for it to happen at 4pm on a rainy Wednesday as Greg was on his way to a late shift and had nipped into Speedy's to buy a sandwich for later.

Mr Chatterjee nodded to him, Greg had become a regular, unwilling to cook in the sad little flat he was staying in. As Greg waited for his order he heard his name and turned to to see John seated at a table.

'Hiding from his Lordship?' he joked, but the doctor didn't return his smile, and it was only then that Greg realised who he was sitting with.

'Mycroft,' he said quietly, praying that he looked calmer than he felt.

Mycroft barely looked at him, 'Detective Inspector.'

Greg actually took a step back at that, the coldness in Mycroft's voice lanced through him and he was so shocked he missed the surprised look on John's face.

Oblivious to what those two simple words had done to Greg, Mycroft calmly pourwed more milk into his tea.

Thankfully his order was called and Greg fled the cafe, his sandwich and coffee in his shaking hands, and John's concerned voice calling after him.

#

'And Dimmock reckoned that it was the brother because he was there when we -sir? Are you listening to me?'

'Yeah.'

'You're not, are you?' Donnovan sighed and closed the file that was open on her knee, 'Look, it's none of my business-'

'You're right, it's not.'

'But you've been a right miserable sod since you and your wife-'

'You're about to cross a line sergeant.'

'Detective sergeant,' Donnovan refused to be intimidated, 'The detective part is important.' she gave him a meaningful stare.

'Then perhaps you need more training,' Greg said pointedly.

Donnovan pulled a face, 'Anything you want to talk about?'

'No.'

'Alright,' she shrugged and reopened the file, 'As I was saying, Dimmock thinks...'

#

It was almost midnight before Greg got a break. He sat in his office, the blinds closed in an attempt to steal a moments for himself.

Leaning forward in his seat he ran a hand over his face and hair, not caring that it would stick up. He'd always hated the late shift, usually because Sherlock would turn uip at some stage. It was also the longest shift, or so it seemed.

Once upon a time he had actually preferred ths shift. It meant he could take his kids to school the next morning, sneak a couple of hours sleep and then spending his night running through a dark London feeling like he was in one of those old spy movies Mycroft had loved so much.

Now it was just him in his office staring at a chicken and tomato sandwich and thinking about the encounter earlier that evening.

Mycroft had barely glanced at him.

Greg sighed.

God knows what Mycroft and John had been talking about, but if he had to guess it would something about Sherlock.

Shortly before 3am his suspicion was proven correct.

#

'You know we're not your personal drugs squad, right?' Greg snapped at John before turning to Sherlock, 'And if you can't keep clean for you then can you do it for John, because you're killing him with all this bloody nonsense.'

John opened his mouth to speak, but Greg talked over him, jabbing a finger in Sherlock's direction, 'He's terrified he'll come home one day and find you dead on the sofa. So I know you don't give a shit about yourself, but finding you like that would probably push him over the edge and then I'd have to go to two funerals.'

For the first time since Greg had arrived Sherlock looked shocked, and he held up a sheet of paper.

'I have a list.'

'A list of what?' Greg snarled.

'A list of what he's taken,' a smooth voice came from the doorway, 'We have an agreement that he keeps a list.'

Greg closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, 'I swear to God, Sherlock, that list had better say too parcetamol and a large red bull because if it's-'

He didn't get to finish because there was an angry shout from down stairs, 'Sherlock Holmes have you been at my soothers?

#

Mrs Hudson was not a fan of Mycroft, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't take his money. Meanwhile Greg and John wrestled Sherlock into bed to sleep it off. Greg found himself leaving at the same time as Mycroft, and he nodded towards Mrs Hudson who had tucked the wad of notes into her bra and promised to bring the boys tea in a couple of hours.

'You know she runs a drugs cartel, right?' Greg asked, 'She gets her drugs for free.'

Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking slightly irritated.

'And is there a reason you haven't arrested her?'

Greg shrugged, 'She doesn't sell to kids or your brother, just rich lawyers and investment bankers. And she'd beat me senseless if I tried.'

Mycroft ALMOST managed to hide the smile on his face. Greg was already opening the door to his car.

'See you around.' he didn't give Mycroft a chance to speak, instead he shut the door and kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he pulled away to finish the rest of his shift.

#

Greg was leaving work at 7am when his phone rang.

'Dad?'

'Anna! Is everything okay?'

'Hmm. Are you?'

'Missing you guys.'

'I miss you too. Are you...coming home?'

Greg bit his lip, this was the hardest thing about the whole mess, 'No, sweetheart, I'm not.'

There was silence on the other end and for a moment he thought she had hung up.

'Can I see you?'

'Of course. Any time you want, I'll be there. You know that.'

#

And that was how he found himself sitting in a cafe by the school having breakfast with his daughter.

'You know this doesn't change anything with you and me, right?'

Anna stirred another sugar into her tea, 'Are you getting divorced?'

Greg nodded, 'Yeah.'

'Because of that woman?'

'Because it wasn't working anymore.'

'Are you still seeing her?'

Greg bit his lip, 'No.'

'Then you could come back.'

He shook his head, 'No, sweetheart. I know it doesn#'t seem like it, but this for the best. Your mum deserves someone who's gonna make her happy. And I don't make her happy anymore.'

Anna seemed to consider this as she picked at her sausages.

'How's your brother?' Greg asked.

'He's still angry.'

'He won't be angry forever.'

Anna just shrugged noncommittally.


	7. Chapter 7

He’d been expecting it. He knew that Caroline would move fast, she was never one to put off throwing a punch when she got the chance, but even Greg was impressed at the speed with which the divorce petition arrived on his desk.

And by fuck had she gone to town.

Pages and pages of his failings, everything from hos working hours to the fact he’d cheated on her, all of it laid bare on the page. It was not pleasant reading, more so because he knew he couldn’t argue with any of it.

He hadn’t even finished it before he was reaching for his phone.

‘John? I could really use a pint….’

#

By the time John got back to the flat, having left Greg practically poured over a young squaddie that had caught his attention, it was late and John was tired. What he didn’t want to deal with with was the sound of shouting coming from upstairs.

Sherlock and Mycroft were at opposite sides of the room, Mycroft calmly leaning on his umbrella while Sherlock paced the floor ranting.

‘Alright boys, it’s late,’ he said, walking past them to the kitchen, and aware of the sudden silence behind him as the Holmes brothers did…that thing they did.

‘Two drinks too many, rounded shoulders, not a celebration…’ Sherlock started.

‘...faint scent of smoke…beer garden…’

‘Lestrade…’

Mycroft sniffed, ‘Beer then…scotch.’

‘Suggested a bad night. Lestrade had a large envelope on his desk from a solicitors this afternoon.’

‘Divorce petition.’

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock finished.

By this stage John had filled a glass with water and turned back to face the brothers, ‘You know it’s really creepy when you do that.’

‘You came back to Baker Street alone…’ Sherlock said slowly, and Mycroft gave an almost imperceptible flinch.

John didn’t say anything, hyper aware of Mycroft looking at him, ‘I’m going to bed. Try to keep the noise down.’

He hadn’t even reached the top of the stairs when he heard the front door of the flat open and then close again.

#

Greg was sharing a cigarette with the squaddie, who was getting less and less interesting as Greg started to sober up. He was contemplating another drink when the black car pulled up and his phone chimed.

‘Get into the car, Detective Inspector.’

He looked across the street to see Anthea standing by the open car door, phone in hand, looking bored. He sighed, knowing from experience that if he didn’t go with her then she’d come in and get him, and that wasn’t a pleasant experience for anyone.

It was almost a relieve to leave the squaddie behind and saunter across the road.

‘I’m busy, Anthea.’

She just raised one perfectally sculpted eyebrow at him and indicated that he should get into the car, which after a five second stand off he did. Anthea climbed in after him, sitting down opposite him. She handed him a bottle of water, some paracetamol and a packet of polo mints.

‘Do I look that bad?’ Greg asked with a short laugh.

‘Yes.’ she returned her gaze to her phone and ignored him as the car started to move.

‘Look,’ Greg leaned forward, ‘Whatever he needs, can it wait? I’ve had a skinful and am in no state to be running around doing jobs for him-’

The look she gave him said very clearly that it was time for him to stop talking, and Greg held his tongue for the next five minutes.

‘I’m not doing this anymore,’ he said, ‘My days of running about after Mycroft Bloody Holmes are over. He can do his own dirty work. And, while we’re on the subject, where the hell does he get off pulling me out of the pub, I was with someone.’

This was met with an amused flick of her eyes which made Greg want to yell.

‘You can be a real cow, do you know that?’

Her smile said she was aware.

The car pulled up outside of Baker Street and Greg sighed. It was clear he wasn’t going to get any more out of her. So instead he reached for the door.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, ‘Tell your boss to stay out of my life.’

At this she lifted her beautiful face from her screen and considered him for a long moment.

‘You’re wife wasn’t the only one you were cheating on.’

As her words sank in through the fog of alcohol the door beside Greg was opened from the outside by the driver and he had no option but to leave. The car was already pulling away before he could get his keys out of his pocket.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft was angry. Very angry. Anthea was ignoring him in favour of a game she had downloaded on her phone. Even as he glared at her he knew it was little use. Anthea was something of a law unto herself and right now she didn’t give two hoots about Mycroft’s mood.

He’d already had angry texts from both John and Sherlock that morning, Sherlock having finally worked things out and thrown the predicted tantrum. He had half expected a message from Gregory, but when there was nothing by four pm he had to concede that the inspector was not going to be in touch. And Mycroft wasn’t really sure how he felt about that.

Gregory had gone to work, looking slightly rougher than normal, but fully functioning. He’d spent most of the morning in Camden taking witness statements and then stopped on the way back to the Yard for chips with sergeant Donovan. Not that Mycroft would ever admit to watching him on CCTV, or tracking his phone, or sending on of his assistants to discretely follow him…

He was trying to focus on an email and not open the video feed at the Yard again when a cup and saucer were practically slammed onto the desk in front of him, a plate of sandwiches followed, one of them skittering off and hitting the floor.

‘This is just tragic now,’ Anthea shook her head.

‘When I want you’re opinion I shall ask for it.’

‘No you won’t!’

Mycroft bristled slightly and tried to brush breadcrumbs off his jacket with as much dignity as he could muster, ‘I should remind you that you are not paid to interfere with my personal life.’

‘I’m not paid to bring you tea either but you don’t trust anyone else to not spit in it!’

They stared at each other across the desk, Anthea with her arms folded, one hip jutting slightly as he shot him down with her most meaningful look.

‘I’m not lone-’

‘Oh do fuck off, sir!’ Anthea sighed, ‘Eat your lunch.’

And then she was gone again, her heels clacking across the tiled floor. Mycroft stared after her. Even Sherlock at his most vitriolic had never sworn at him with such derision. In fact only one other person apart from Anthea, and he had to admit she got away with much more than anyone else would, had ever spoken to him like that, had ever called him on his attitude with quite so much bluntness.

Mycroft picked up a sandwich and peered inside it. Salmon. He hated salmon. Anthea was making a point.

#

Greg opened the door to 221C with a sigh. He’d picked up some dinner on the way home but he didn’t really want it. A couple of weeks ago he would have spent a Friday evening flirting with Mycroft across the table in some fancy hotel, or curled up at Mycroft’s home drinking a bottle of wine that cost more than Greg earned in a month. Now he was just a sad bastard eating takeaway on his own in a damp basement flat.

Caroline was going to clean him out. The phone call he’d had with his solicitor that afternoon had confirmed it. There was no point in arguing, he’d left her after all.She got to keep the house until the kids were both eighteen, after that it would be sold and equity divided. She would get half of his pension, the car, maintenance. She’d already wiped out their joint account and savings and honestly he couldn’t blame her. Not really.

What was more worrying was finding the money to pay the legal fees, even his solicitors conservative estimate had been eye watering. He’d be paying it off for years.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Greg retrieved a fork and peeled open the first container.

He hadn’t planned any of this. He hadn’t planned Mycroft. It had just happened, and when it did he found that he just couldn’t give it up. In truth, that morning when he decided to leave, he hadn’t thought any further past the euphoria that he could be with Mycroft. Properly. He was ready to leave her, ready to do it.

But Mycroft hadn’t wanted him.

Suddenly his subgum didn’t look at all appetising. He didn’t even like subgum and had no idea why he had ordered it.

‘Yes you do,’ that treacherous voice in the back of his mind said, ‘Because HE likes it.’

Greg put the lid back on the container and threw the unused fork into the sink. He needed to stop doing this to himself.

In desperation he retreated to the wardrobe and fished out his trainers. A run. That would help. That’s what he always did when things piled up and he needed to clear his mind. 

‘HE likes to run,’ that bastard voice said.

Greg shook his head, tightened his laces and yanked open the door, coming face to face with the man in question, eyes wide with surprise, hand raised ready to knock.

‘Oh,’ was all he could manage.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft shifted under Gregory’s hard stare, and wished the other man would say something. After almost a minute of silence Mycroft took a breath.  
‘May I come in?’  
‘Why?’ Was the immediate reply.  
‘I believe we should…talk.’  
Gregory’s harsh laugh was too loud in the small space between them.  
‘Now you want to talk?’ Gregory shook his head, ‘Talk about what?’  
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, trying to remember the wording of Dr Watson’s angry early morning texts. There had been a lot of talk about things such as closure, which Mycroft had personally never set much store by, but nevertheless the fact that he should talk to Gregory in some capacity had registered with him as necessary.  
‘The end of our…’  
‘Our what?’ Gregory demanded, still blocking the doorway, his soft eyes hardened with anger and hurt.  
‘May we talk about this in private?’ Mycroft asked quietly.  
Seeming to take some sort of pity on the other man, Gregory stood aside and allowed Mycroft to enter the small flat.  
Mycroft tried not to recoil at the place his lo- FORMER partner was now living. It was unbearably small and smelled of damp, there were stains on the ceiling and clothes drying on the solitary radiator in the room. Gregory caught him looking around and looked down, embarrassed.  
‘It’s-‘  
‘Right, what do you want?’ Gregory demanded, once again reverting to anger to cover his other emotions.  
‘…I was sorry to hear about your wife.’  
It was clear that whatever answer Gregory had been expecting, that had not been it.  
‘You what?’ he growled, taking a step towards Mycroft and looking like he very much wanted to punch him.  
‘It…it was never my intention to break up your family. That is why I always…I always made it clear that what we did was just…’  
‘Just a quick fuck?’ Gregory spat, and Mycroft winced at the vulgarity.  
Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but found himself struggling for words.  
‘I loved you!’  
In the silence that followed Gregory’s shout, Mycroft became very aware of how hot his face was becoming. He looked down at the floor so he wouldn’t have to look at the person he cared about be so angry with him.  
‘This was a bad idea,’ Mycroft said, ‘I should go.’  
‘No!’ Gregory moved to stand in front of him, ‘No, you don’t get to swan off again, you owe me a fucking explanation.’ He swallowed and when he spoke again his voice was broken, ‘You owe me that.’  
Mycroft nodded, still looking at the awful threadbare pink carpet, ‘I do.’  
Gregory folded his arms and waited, anger radiating off him in waves.  
‘When we…became involved I was aware of your wife. You made no secret of that and I knew the guilt you felt so I never…I never pushed for more. I kept you at a distance to save us both from the possibility of….’  
‘Of what ended up happening anyway?’ Gregory said.  
Mycroft nodded, ‘I…I was…content with our agreement so long as emotions were not allowed to intervere. I could separate my guilt and my own…hurt so long as I only allowed it to be physical.’  
He became aware of Gregory going completely still, and when he looked up at him the policeman’s eyes were too bright and he was biting hard on his lip as if to stop himself speaking.  
‘I never expected you to…’ Mycroft swallowed again, ‘When you turned up at my door I…I didn’t know what to…I never thought you would…’ he stopped and took a moment to control himself before speaking again, ‘I never thought you would chose me.’  
Gregory took a step towards him, ‘Of course I chose you,’ he said, not even bothering to try and hide his tears now.  
But Mycroft held up his hand to stop him, ‘But I am not going to be anyone’s second choice.’  
‘What?’  
‘Your marriage was already failing before we began our dalliance, I was a suitable distraction for you, but I will not be the reason you walked away from your wife and I will not be the person you chose when there are no other options.’  
‘That’s not what it was!’  
‘Wasn’t it?’ Mycroft said so softly he could barely hear his own voice.  
Gregory looked like Mycroft had punched him and Mycroft realised this was a bad idea. They weren’t ready for this conversation. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened his eyes again his war mask had slipped back into place.  
‘I’m sorry for interrupting your evening, Gregory. I shall not detain you any further. Please forgive me.’ He turned to go and then something stopped him and when he spoke it was without looking around again, ‘If it had been different circumstances,’ he said, ‘If I knew that I was….I would have cared greatly for you, Gregory.’  
And he left before the other man could respond.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure how he made it back to the car, but he was thankful for the professional indifference of his driver who didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when the politician staggered towards him.

He didn’t remember the drive, or exactly how they got back to the house. He fumbled with the keypad on the front door, his fingers not doing what he wanted them to, and then, then he was home. Shut away safely inside his house, the world kept at bay and he was able to think for the first time since leaving Gregory.

It had been easy.

He’d not expected that. Not at first. The day he dragged DI Lestrade to a warehouse in Battersea he never would have anticipated that he would fall for the man. It was the only eventuality that he had not factored in. 

‘…to the sum of thirty thousand a –‘

‘Fifty.’

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the forwardness, noting how the DI was grinning at him, sitting back in his seat, feet kicked out in front of him as if he was watching TV rather than negotiate for his life. This was not how this was supposed to go.

‘…well I’m sure that can be-‘

‘You’d pay it!’ those dark brown eyes were mocking him now, ‘I could name any figure and you’d pay it because he means that much to you….right? Not a partner…and not an enemy because, and correct me if I’m wrong, but a man like you probably has people who handle enemies for him. So I’m thinking it’s personal….OH MY GOD! He’s your brother! Isn’t he?’

Mycroft slept with Lestrade five days later.

Sex was easy. It always had been. But Mycroft was not prepared for the emotions that came along with it. He’d ignored them for as long as he could. Accepted Gregory slipping out of bed to go home to his wife. He knew the situation and he accepted the rules.

He had not been prepared for Gregory to leave his wife. That had not been the plan. The idea that they had no reason to hide now was both exciting and terrifying. His Gregory could really be his. 

And Mycroft had sent him away.

Then tonight he….without thinking Mycroft turned around and walked back out into the street. Where his driver was still waiting, a knowing smile on his face that Mycroft wholeheartedly disapproved off.

‘Brixton, sir?’

Mycroft glared at him and opened the door himself., wondering if any of his staff were unaware of his private life. He would be having words with Anthea tomorrow.

When the car pulled up outside the Baker Street flat he was moving before the handbrake had even been pulled.


	11. Chapter 11

It was Mrs Hudson who answered the door.

‘He’s not here. He went out just after you left. You can leave a messa-‘

‘Do you know where he went?’ Mycroft cut the older woman off before she could get into her full flow.

‘Oh I don’t ask usually-‘

‘Mrs Hudson!’

‘Well he didn’t take the car so he might have gone to the pub. I think he goes to that one-‘

Mycroft had already turned and was walking up the street, leaving his driver and Mrs Hudson staring at each other in stunned silence.

#

Greg was on a mission to get drunk and pull. And after the last twenty four hours, no, fuck that, after the last year, he didn’t really care how or who.

Who the hell did Mycroft Bloody Holmes think he was? Greg angrily knocked back the last of his whisky and signalled for another one. The bastard thought he could drop Greg like hot dog shit and then send one of his minions to haul Greg away from a guaranteed shag.

Fair enough, he’d been starting to lose interest in the squaddie before that happened, but that wasn’t the point. He accepted the new drink with a nod and immediately swallowed a large mouthful.

No, Mycroft had decided that he didn’t want Greg, but that Greg couldn’t have anyone else and apparently it was because of FEELINGS!

Well fuck that!

He let the anger fill him because it was better than everything else he had been feeling since that night Mycroft had turned him away on the doorstep.

One more gulp finished his fifth…no, sixth glass and he was contemplating a seventh, but first he really needed a smoke. Patting his pockets for his cigarettes he turned towards the side door where the smoking shelter was.

And almost walked straight into Mycroft Fucking Holmes.


	12. Chapter 12

No.

Mycroft swallowed hard and looked away from and then back to the man standing in front of him looking furious. But Gregory was still there, his dark eyes hard with anger and the set of his jaw a clear indication that he was only just holding back from shouting at Mycroft.

Before Mycroft could say anything Gregory stepped forward and grabbed him too hard by the elbow, pushing him to turn around and walk the same way he did with those under his arrest. Mycroft had seen him do it often enough with Sherlock but he had never been on the receiving end of it. Unlike the flare of arousal that came when he watched Gregory manhandle someone else, when Gregory took hold of him all Mycroft felt was a shiver of fear.

Gregory walked with a long, determined stride, steering Mycroft past the smoking shelter and beyond the few tables dotted around it until they were almost on the street again. Only then did he stop and turn Mycroft to face him with a swift jerk of his arm.

They were face to face again, closer this time, and Mycroft could feel the anger radiating off Gregory and through the powerful grip he had on Mycroft’s arm.

‘Right, listen,’ Greg leaned in so close that Mycroft could feel his breath hot on his face, ‘I’m not going to tell you again. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!’

Mycroft took a step backwards at the force of the shout. He had never seen Gregory so furious. But Gregory wasn’t done and he closed the gap between them again.

‘You stay away from me. You don’t show up at my crime scenes, you don’t send your secretary as a cockblock and you don’t fucking show up when I’m out trying to forget you fucking exist. Do you understand?’

Mycroft couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even force himself to nod.

Gregory tugged hard on his arm as if trying to get his attention, and Mycroft suddenly could see why the criminals he dealt with, and even Sherlock, respected and feared the detective inspector. This was a side of him that he kept hidden, buried under his usual affable nature and brought out only when it was needed. Just like Mycroft. 

Huh. Mycroft blinked. It was a shame this was the situation that had led to that revelation. But he pushed it into a box to examine later because it seemed that Gregory was still waiting on something from him.

‘Do I have to repeat it?’ Gregory growled.

Mycroft shook his head, ‘No,’ he said quietly.

‘Good.’ Gregory let go off him, all of the anger gone from him and a deep sadness taking it’s place, which was somehow more terrifying, ‘Go away.’

‘Gregory-‘ Mycroft stepped forward, one hand raised in peace.

‘I gave up everything for you,’ Gregory wasn’t looking at him, instead he was looking at something over Mycroft’s shoulder, ‘And you didn’t want it. So…please….just….just l-leave me alone.’

Blinking hard, Gregory turned and walked swiftly away, his steps as unsteady as his voice.


	13. Chapter 13

The following day Greg arrived to work hungover and tired after a night spent mostly in tears and anger. He’d gone back to the flat and opened another bottle and slammed around the kitchen ranting until Mrs Hudson banged on the ceiling. He fell onto the sofa and that’s when the tears came.

When he walked into the office, slightly grey and eyes still red his team exchanged glances with each other but no one said anything to him, they knew better. He was glad to reach his office and close the door behind him. And it was then that he found the flowers.

He moved towards them with a frown, no one had ever sent him flowers, and this was clearly an expensive bouquet in an elegant vase.

Greg’s frown turned angry. He knew exactly who had sent them without needing to read the card. He tore open the thick envelope with more force than necessary and pulled out the card inside, thick, cream and expensive, written in black ink with an elegant hand it only had two words.

I apologise.

#

It was a long day and Greg was glad when it was finally over. He’d had to physically separate Sherlock and Anderson who were about to come to blows, and later send Sally to convincing a crying Dimmock to come out of the toilet, for which he gave her the flowers. He sure as hell didn’t want them in his flat as a reminder.

The traffic seemed to be much slower than normal and so he had time to think. Something he had been trying to avoid doing all day.

He’d made up his mind to move on with his life. It had all turned to shit, but he was damned if he was going to have another night like last night. He was too old to be so pitiful, and he didn’t want to be another sad middle aged fucker, divorced and moping in a tragic flat, living off beer and baked beans.

So the first thing he had done was to sign the divorce petition. He didn’t call his solicitor because frankly there was no point, he wasn’t going to fight anything, Caroline could have it all. After all, it was him that had fucked everything up.

The document had been dropped into his outgoing mail and would be with her solicitor the following day.

The next thing was to find somewhere else to live, because, as grateful as he was for the roof over his head, he refused to stay there. It would just be pathetic. As soon as he was back at 221C he changed out of his work clothes into an old t-shirt and jogging bottoms and fished his laptop out of his bag. He ate dinner (the subgum he hadn’t touched the night before because he was going to need to save all the money he could and from now on he couldn’t afford to waste food) as he scrolled through listings for flats. He was definitely going to have to move further outside Central London, which was a bit of a pain, but it was what he could afford.

He scolled past the listings for flat shares because that would be too tragic for a fifty year old policeman, and took the details of a few to call about on his lunch break tomorrow then he went to bed early. Alone.

He moved into his new flat three weeks later.

#

And found himself with his arms wrapped around Mycroft Holmes two days after that.


	14. Chapter 14

John Watson was hysterical to the point of violence, stalking the halls and demanding answers from every doctor or nurse who passed them. Greg knew better than to try and stop him, instead he brought them crappy tea from the machine at the end of the corridor and sat quietly on a plastic chair, texting his team for updates.

After the latest nurse threatened to have him removed if he didn’t stop, Greg finally stepped in.

‘You need to calm down, mate.’ He said quietly, using that authorative, calm voice he used in interviews with victims and breaking up fights that threatened to get out of hand at the pub. Soldier John reacted immediately, stilling his body, but still clenching and unclenching both his jaw and his hand. After a few deep breaths he turned to Greg.

‘Sherlock was STABBED!’

‘I know.’

‘At your crime scene!’

Greg stood up and put up a hand to silence John, ‘Right, hang on! Firstly, I wasn’t the one that stabbed him, secondly, he shouldn’t have gone running off after him on his own, so take that up with the pillock when he comes out of surgery. Thirdly-‘

‘What if he doesn’t come out?’ John said quietly, his voice breaking.

John’s default was angry, it was how he coped with things out of his control, so it was rare to see him worried and scared, and Greg sympathised with him entirely. He nodded and gave him a sad half smile.

‘Course he will. Doesn’t he always?’

John looked pained but was forced to nod in agreement.

‘Right,’ Greg lowered his hand and took a deep breath, ‘You should nip into the loos and clean yourself up, and take off that jumper.’

John looked down at his jumper and hands as if he had never seen them before. They were both bloody from where John had been doing first aid until the ambulance arrived. Of course Sherlock had been conscious and entirely uncooperative about the whole thing and kept trying to get up, insisting that he was fine and the guy was getting away. It had taken Greg to physically restrain Sherlock while John did what he could to stem the bleeding, but he was still arguing as he was loaded into the ambulance.

‘Yeah,’ he said, looking around for the toilets, ‘Right…’

Greg squeezed his shoulder, ‘I’ll go across the street and get us some proper tea, yeah? I’ll be five minutes, alright? And don’t worry about his lordship, he’ll be enjoying all the painkillers they’re pumping into him.’

John gave a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and pushed open the toilet door. Greg had a quiet word with the nurse on the desk, letting her know where John was if there was any news. She nodded sympathetically.

He was almost at the door when it opened and Mycroft Holmes came through it, eyes wide and face pale. When he spotted Greg he came towards him and grabbed hold of his arm.

‘How is he?’

Greg reeled for a second and then the worry on Mycroft’s face overtook Greg’s own feelings about the man and he swallowed and nodded, ‘He’s alright. Well, you know…he’s in surgery, but he was conscious and shouting at people right up until they sedated him.’

‘How did it happen?’ there was a touch of the Iceman there and Greg narrowed his eyes, his body tensing. Mycroft seemed to realise and his expression softened, ‘Please,’ he said quietly.

‘He did his usual act of running off on his own thinking he knows best.’

Mycroft nodded, ‘Was…it bad?’

This was the question Greg didn’t want to answer because as a police officer who had seen many stabbings over the years he knew how it could go. And he knew that Mycroft, despite his insistence that his job was desk based and minor, had seen enough to know too.

‘Clean into the stomach. John was there straight away. But…well, it’s a stomach wound, so…’

Mycroft nodded, he knew exactly how bad even a clean stomach wound could be. He closed his eyes and swayed slightly, and instinctively Greg took hold of Mycroft’s arms to steady him. He wasn’t expecting Mycroft to step forward towards him, leaning against him, eyes still closed. A few shocked seconds followed where Greg could feel Mycroft trembling against him, his breath too fast and shallow, completely overcome with his worry about his brother, and Greg’s heart broke for him.

‘Come here,’ he said, pulling Mycroft into his arms and just holding him there.


	15. Chapter 15

There were pros and cons of his new flat in Finsbury Park. Pros included the low rent and handiness to the tube. Cons included the small size and more noise. Although considering he’d spent a while living on Baker Street, one of the busiest streets in London at the best of times, and living in the same building as Sherlock Holmes who thought that firing a gun at three am was perfectly acceptable, the noise didn’t bother him as much as it might someone else.

One massive pro was that he could walk to the Emirates in ten minutes, which was going to save him a fortune on match days.

Another pro was that it was HIS. And it didn’t carry the memories of anyone else. He could make it his own. He’d gone all out and ordered himself a new sofa, well, a £200 cheapie from the IKEA sale that the delivery drivers refused to carry up the stairs so he’d had to enlist the help of John and a newly released from hospital Sherlock. Well, John. Sherlock just played on his phone and complained about the colour.

And that’s where he was now, sitting on his sofa in his boxers with a beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other one at 11am because he was an adult and this was his flat and he could do what he wanted to damn it!

This was the bachelor life he had never really had. He’d lived with his parents until he moved in with Caroline, and he was married by twenty three and a father at twenty five. He groaned as he thought about his eldest son, Jason, who was now the same as Greg was when he was born. But instead of fighting for a promotion to support a wife and baby, Jason, a restless architect, was working on some bridge in Cambodia. Or maybe that was last month. Greg found it hard to keep up with his eldest.

He hadn’t spoken to him properly since he’d moved out. There had been a few email exchanges and a brief Skype when their free time had matched up, which didn’t happen often. Although Jason seemed his normal self, he hadn’t mentioned Caroline, which was unusual. But there was something that told Greg he already knew, and if he’d heard Caroline’s side of the story then it was a shock he was still speaking to Greg at all. But then again, in the volatile Lestrade household Jason had always been Switzerland.

Greg made a note to email later that evening and see how he was getting on.

The divorce meanwhile, was moving ahead much faster than Greg expected. Caroline seemed to be using her anger as a driving force, while Greg was just willing it to be over. They hadn’t spoken to each other in weeks, only exchanging nods when Greg went to pick up Anna. Simon still wouldn’t talk to him, and Greg had to hope that he came round in his own time.

And all of this because he’d gone and fallen in love with Mycroft Holmes.

Love.

Greg laughed bitterly and took another swig of beer. Wasn’t falling in love supposed to be nice? Wasn’t it supposed to make everything better? So how come he was sitting here on his own and had never felt worse in his life?

How come all he wanted to do was see Mycroft?

How come the very last thing he wanted was to see Mycroft?

Another swig of beer. He’d have to get up for a refill in a moment. But before then he allowed himself a few seconds of thinking just about the redhead.

He hadn’t seen or heard from him since the hospital. He’d held Mycroft in the corridor until the doctor appeared to say that Sherlock was out of surgery and Mycroft had followed him and Greg had gone home.

He’d almost expected a call, or a text. Even one of Mycroft’s curt little cards on his desk. But nothing. Nothing at all for weeks and weeks.

Of course he’d toyed with the idea of just landing on Mycroft’s doorstep again. He wondered what the politician would do then. Probably have him escorted away by security. It hadn’t gone so well the last time he’d just shown up. Nor had it gone well on the occasion Mycroft had shown up at 221C.

No. He didn’t need Mycroft’s rejection yet again.

His phone rang and he glanced at it to see John’s name flashing.

‘What are you doing now?’ John asked, and Greg could hear Sherlock rampaging in the background.

‘Getting drunk.’

‘At this time of the morning?’

Greg took a sip of beer and grinned, ‘Yep.’

Something crashing in the background and the line went muffled, but Greg could hear John shouting. After a moment John came back on the phone.

‘Can I come?’

Greg didn’t even try to hide his laugh, ‘You’ll have to bring more beer.’

When John arrived he had a crate of beer under his arm and Sherlock in his wake.

‘You didn’t think I was going to leave him unsupervised did you?’ John said in a tone that told Greg there had been Words on the way over.

Sherlock looked sullen and then fished in his pocket and produced two bottles of very expensive scotch which he thrust at Greg.

‘I assume you have glasses?’ he said, flopping down on the armchair, all legs and sharp angles, ‘Or I suppose a straw would do.’

Greg set the bottles on the table and then went through to the kitchen to put John’s beer in the fridge and fetch glasses. Grateful that he’d had the presence of mind to get dressed before they arrived. Sherlock wouldn’t have held back his scathing commentary on Greg’s middle-aged dad-body, and he didn’t need one more blow to his ego right now.

‘So tell me,’ Greg said as they were onto their third rather generous glass, ‘How come you have two bottles of Talisker in your flat?’

‘John said I wasn’t allowed to use them in an experiment.’

‘No. John said you weren’t allowed to set fire to a five hundred quid bottle of Talisker.’ John glared at Sherlock over the top of his glass.

‘That would have been a waste,’ Greg agreed.

‘He wouldn’t drink them because they were a present from Mycroft.’ John shrugged, still glaring at Sherlock, ‘Not that Sherlock is petty like that or anything.’

Greg took another large drink and wished it was cheap shite that would burn his throat, but it didn’t. So he had to concede that the stab of pain was the mention of Mycroft and not the alcohol.

‘You should be nicer to your brother,’ he said evenly.

Sherlock made a rude noise but thankfully didn’t go off on one of his diatribes about Mycroft’s failings.

‘They’ve been good lately,’ John said, reaching for a refill, ‘They’re nicer to each other when they are on opposite sides of the world. Of course, since he can’t argue with Mycroft, Sherlock has to take his frustrations out somewhere else. You should see the state of the flat. One more visit from the fire brigade and Mrs Hudson is going to evict us.’

‘Greg waited until John had his glass at his lips before he spoke, ‘You could just shag his frustrations out of him.’

Cleaning the sprayed scotch off the carpet later would totally be worth the choked noise John made.

Sherlock, for his part, didn’t even glance up from whoever he was texting, ‘He didn’t like it when I suggested it either.’

This time it was Greg’s turn to choke, the sound accompanied by John’s declaration that he was, for the last time, NOT gay.

‘Where…where’s Mycroft been then?’ Greg asked, looking down into his glass and being as casual as he could manage.

‘Umm, Brussels and then somewhere in Yemen I think.’

‘Yemen?’

‘Could have been Lebanon…can’t remember.’

Greg just nodded. He wanted to question why Mycroft was doing fieldwork all of a sudden, but there was no point, John wouldn’t know and Sherlock wouldn’t tell him, and just asking the question would be admitting to himself, and them, that he still cared about the other man.

‘Anyone else fancy an Indian?’ he asked instead.

#

Nobody should see five am when hungover. It was a cruel punishment for sins committed in a past life. And the night before.

But Greg was not only awake, well, mostly, he was on his hands and knees rooting through the clothes he had disguarded last night before he went to bed, looking for his phone which had been ringing for five minutes straight.

He’d thought if he ignored it then it would stop, then it kept going and some part of his brain that was still capable of rational thought kicked the rest of his brain awake and shouted that if someone was calling at this time it was probably important.

Or, the still slightly drunk and sleepy part of his brain countered, it could be Jason forgetting about the time difference again.

Greg fumbled for the phone and swore if it was his son calling then the little shit was in serious trouble.

‘’lo,’ he barked gruffly.

‘Detective Inspector Lestrade?’ the voice was cool and collected but carried a weight of authority that made Greg sober up very quickly.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked, a thousand scenarios running through his mind, his parents, his kids, work, Sherlock….

‘This is…Anthea,’ the pause before she gave her name was tiny, but it confirmed something Greg had long suspected in that it was not her real name.

But, sober brain screamed, if Anthea, The Anthea was calling him, at five am then something must have….

‘Where is he?’

‘Mr Holmes is currently out of our-‘

‘Anthea, I swear to god if something has happened to him and you don’t tell me right now I will get really fucking angry and-‘

‘We don’t know.’ He voice was low, as if she shouldn’t be telling him, ‘We landed back in London safely three days ago. We took separate cars after that. He checked in on the first day but he didn’t check in again. It’s been forty eight hours and people are starting to notice. I can’t keep this a secret for much longer.’

‘Why are you keeping it a fucking secret?’ Greg was struggling into his trousers as he spoke, ‘You should be telling everyone that-‘

‘Don’t be so stupid!’ Anthea snapped, ‘Do you have any idea what would happen if people found out My…HE was missing? What that would mean politically? Internationally? Peace talks and trade deals?’ she stopped speaking for a moment, obviously composing herself, ‘There are only a few people I can trust and they are all looking for him. My intelligence suggests he’s still in London and we’ve had no demands as yet so we’re assuming wherever he is he went there voluntarily.’

‘You’ve checked all of his usual places?’ he asked, his mind racing as he looked for his shirt.

‘There’s someone watching his club and his brother’s flat.’ She confirmed.

‘So why are you calling me?’

There was a long pause and Greg could almost see the pretty brunette biting her lip as she debated what to say.

‘Like I said, there are only a few people I can trust.’

That had NOT been the answer Greg was expecting and it threw him.

‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’

Greg closed his eyes and thought about Mycroft. Not just Mycroft, but HIS Mycroft. The Mycroft so few people got to see. He thought about everything he knew about the man.

‘Yeah,’ he said eventually, ‘I think I might.’


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft sat in the shadows, safe for now, but still on edge, straining to hear any sound above his breathing. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and his hands gripped the unfamiliar gun at his side.

He held his breath, certain he had heard something. He counted a full minute in his head and then relaxed again.

Tap tap….tap…

Footsteps. Cautious. Not someone who was supposed to be here. He listened to them, working out where they were, they paused on the floor below him several times, probably their owner was getting their bearings. Homeless looking for someone to sleep out of the rain, a junkie looking a safe place to shoot up….

Click.

That noise had Mycroft on high alert. He was on his feet in one silent, fluid motion, knowing that he couldn’t been seen up here in the shadows, but he could see down over the rail to the floor below.

The figure had his gun raised and was pointing it into a far corner, then he slowly revolved to take in the whole room. Mycroft couldn’t tell much from this distance except that it was a man and he was well dressed and carried himself with a quiet authority. Not likely to be shooting up in a derelict warehouse.

As Mycroft watched the man side stepped easily and turned again. Typical search pattern – glanceglanceglance LOOK stepstepstep LOOK TURN glanceglanceglance…. Etcetera etcetera….

With a sickening rise of bile in his throat he realised they were looking for him.

And he had been so careful, so….he raised his gun and took aim, a steading breath and a squeeze of a trigger.

The bullet ricocheted off the ground at the mans feet and Mycroft quickly fired off another before the intruder had time to find cover. But before he could fire a third he was hit hard in the chest by a thrown projectile, so hard it knocked his breath out of his lungs and he staggered backwards, looking for the grenade before it went off.

There was a bottle of water laying at his feet.

‘Stop shooting at me you wanker!’

Mycroft froze at the voice, gruff and irritated but familiar.

‘…Gregory?’

#

‘She is doing her nut,’ Greg passed Mycroft another bottle of water and a Mars bar which he sneered at, ‘Well I didn’t have much in my flat except chocolate and beans but I knew you wouldn’t have eaten and I thought this would keep you going until I got you back.’

Mycroft gave him a searching look, ‘Not yet, there is still-‘

‘You don’t have to tell me, government secrets and all that. If even Anthea doesn’t know then it must be serious.’

‘She is familiar with the mission, but not my current location.’

‘Okay.’ Greg didn’t press for more, knowing it was even less of his business now than it was before they split up. He was here because he was a policeman. A policeman who knew Mycroft well and that was as much use as he was to Anthea and Mycroft right now. He’d found the man. Job done.

Except here they were still sitting in silence in the dark in a damp warehouse in Battersea with no sign of moving anywhere.

‘Our trip was…successful. Insomuch as these things can be. We left with a draft agreement in place and relations were good. While we were in the air things changed somewhat, seems there is a bad seed in every apple after all.A…splinter group in the UK decided they didn’t like our plan and I needed to go. Permanently. Unfortunately our friends in Yemen made it very clear that they would only, and I do mean only, speak with myself. Anthea was allowed to be present, but she was not allowed to speak, although she made many of them uncomfortable. And some were afraid of her.’

‘We’re all afraid of Anthea,’ Greg admitted and Mycroft twitched a smile.

‘Quite right too.’

Greg sighed and leaned back against the cold stone wall, ‘So why are you here?’

‘All of my bolt hole and safe houses have been compromised. Any address linked with me is being watched. There was no where safe to go.’ Mycroft looked around, ‘I haven’t used this place in a decade, it seemed the safest place.’

Greg nodded really slowly and they lapsed into silence again. Mycroft reluctantly eating the Mars bar and huffing in disgust when the caramel dribbled onto his chin. And Greg thinking about what it must be like to live Mycroft Holmes life. It was the soft of thing he liked to watch on telly, or read about in a book, but here he was sitting beside a man who was hiding in a derelict factory in the dark because half of London was being searched for him by a rebel group who wanted to derail an international peace plan. You could only make that shit up.

It looked like more fun on the telly though.

‘So what happens now?’

‘Anthea and her team are working to neutralise the threat and in the meantime I have to stay hidden. Should take a few days.’

‘You aren’t staying here all that time?’

‘I may have to move on if here is compromised.’

‘Fuck that,’ Greg stood up and shouldered his backpack again before offering his hand to Mycroft, ‘Come on, we’re going to my place.’

‘Baker Street will most certainly be on their list of-‘

‘Fine. Because I don’t live there anymore.’ He smirked, ‘And since you didn’t know that I bet they don’t either.’

Mycroft stared at him for a long time before taking the offered hand and getting to his feet.

‘I’ve got my car, just stay low in the back where you won’t be seen, alright? Although no one is gonna be paying attention to my shit-mobile anyway.’

Greg led Mycroft back outside and towards the car before indicating the building behind them with a jerk of his head.

‘This is where we met.’

‘…..I know.’


	17. Chapter 17

Greg gave Mycroft his phone to call Anthea and when his assistant picked up the entire conversation took two words.

‘Antarctica.’

‘Understood.’

And then he ended the call and put the phone down in the cup holder between him and Greg.

‘Should you really be driving?’ Mycroft asked, watching Greg blinking hard to focus on the road.

‘No.’ Greg replied, knowing he was still very much over the limit and risking an accident, his licence and his job right in that moment, and all so he could go and fetch the man who rejected him.

Mycroft picked up on his tone and said nothing more, and the rest of the ride to Greg’s new flat was completed in silence. Getting out of the car Mycroft looked up at the building. There was a Food and Wine on the ground floor and then three more floors above that Mycroft assumed were flats.

He followed Greg up to the second floor where the policeman unlocked a brown door and indicated for Mycroft to go in.

It was a marked improvement to the basement flat at Baker Street, but it was still small, bare and depressing. Magnolia throughout with that peculiar rough beige carpet from the Cheap Landlord range that seemed to be in every rented building in London.

Greg had his back to him as he peeled off his coat and threw it over the back of the armchair.

‘Bedroom is through there, I’ll take the sofa,’ the policeman said.

‘I can’t allow you to-‘

‘It’s a sofa bed.’ Greg’s reply was short, ‘Got it in case the kids ever come over.’

Mycroft could tell from the tone of his voice and the set of his shoulders that there was much tension around the subject of Greg’s children, but he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his place, after all, he had been the reason their father left. Even though he had never asked him to.

‘There’s some stuff in the drawers you can wear, help yourself, bathroom is through the door.’ Greg toed his shoes off and threw the only two cushions to one end of the sofa before dropping down on it, only reaching up to pull the throw (a flat warming gift from John because ‘every drunk needs a throw for the sofa’) over him and closed his eyes, one arm over his face. He ignored Mycroft completely, even though Mycroft stood there for almost another full minute.

When it became clear that Greg wasn’t going to move or speak again with him in the room, Mycroft sighed and turned towards the bedroom, more uncertain than he had ever felt in his life.

Greg’s bedroom was as bare as the rest of the flat. A bed that had clearly been vacated by Greg earlier that evening when he left to find Mycroft. The whole room smelled of the policeman, it was a smell that Mycroft had tried very hard to forget. He undressed slowly, folding his trousers and shirt neatly and placing them on top of the drawers before lowering himself onto the bed.

He lay back and closed his eyes against the orange glow of the street light outside the window and tried not to think that he was in Gregory Lestrade’s bed, alone, while the man himself was sleeping in the next room. Rolling over he shifted the pillows to try and get comfortable and his hand closed around something shoved underneath the pillow.

Curious, he pulled it out and sat up to examine it in the awful light.

‘Oh!’ he breathed.

#

Greg woke up to the sound of bedroom door opening softly and he popped himself up to see Mycroft standing just inside the living room looking at him, in his hand he held…oh shit.

Mycroft was just staring at him, his storm coloured eyes reading every part of Greg’s soul. Greg wanted to close his eyes so he didn’t have to see the pity that was surely going to come.

He should have checked the bed before he sent Mycroft in there. He hadn’t meant to take the shirt out the night before, but he’d been drunk and lonely and he’d fallen asleep with it and…and he must have shoved it under his pillow. Which was where Mycroft had found it, and now Mycroft was standing in Greg’s living room, holding his shirt and looking to Greg for a reason Greg had been sleeping with it.

Greg stood up and rubbed his hand over his eyes, when he opened them again Mycroft hadn’t moved, he was still watching Greg with the same curious expression, but there was an edge about his eyes that was the only indication he was anything other than calm.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft raised a finger a fraction which stopped him. Greg couldn’t have moved then if wanted to. This was a feeling he had often around Mycroft, like he was completely under his control. It was something he had once found terrifying, and then arousing, and now…now he wasn’t really sure how he felt, all he knew was that he wanted Mycroft to keep looking at him like that.

Mycroft took one step forward, and then another one and that was it took to bring him within reach of Greg. Another pause, and then he leaned forward and kissed him very softly and gently.

Greg let him.


	18. Chapter 18

‘What are we doing?’ Greg pulled away from Mycroft reluctantly and turned to fill the kettle, trying to keep as much space between them as possible, but also to allow him a few seconds of not looking at Mycroft so he could compose himself.

When he turned back Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, his shirt still in his hands and his expression distant.

‘Why did you keep this?’

Greg huffed out a bitter laugh, ‘You can have it back if it means that much to you.’

‘It was under your pillow.’

‘I know,’ Greg retrieved two mugs and set them on the counter.

‘You-’

‘What?’ Greg rounded on him, ‘I what? Kept it? Yeah. What do you want to hear, that sometimes I sleep with it because it smells like you and…and…’ Greg turned back to the kettle, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

‘Gregory, I-’

‘My divorce came through.’ Greg didn’t know why he told Mycroft that, and from the silence it seemed that Mycroft didn’t know why either.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not,’ Greg said honestly, ‘It was a long time coming, should have done it years ago, but you get stuck in a rut, you know?’

‘No.’ Mycroft said quietly enough for Greg to turn to face him again.

‘You’ve never been in a relationship where you just coasted along because that’s what you were used to and you’re too lazy to do anything about it?’

Mycroft shook his head, ‘Relationships are not…my area of expertise.’

Greg nodded. He’d had a conversation with Mycroft a long time ago where Mycroft made it clear that he didn’t ‘do’ relationships. With a stab of regret Greg realised he should have listened to him when he said that.

Sighing, Greg filled the mugs and carried them over to the sofa. Handing one to Mycroft he said, ‘Look, it’s been a long day. We should get some sleep and I’ll talk to Anthea in the morning, sort out somewhere else for you to stay until this is all-’

‘Thank you,’ Mycroft’s voice was back to it’s usual efficient coolness. Greg hated when Mycroft used that voice on him, ‘You will of course be recompensed for your inconvenience.’

‘I don’t want your money, Mycroft.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘I wanted to make sure you were okay.’

Mycroft didn’t respond, he just stared down into his mug of tea that he clearly had no intention of drinking.

‘Will your partner mind me being here?’

‘It’s just me.’

‘I’m surprised.’

‘Why?’ Greg narrowed his eyes, ‘Thought I would be off shagging my way around London?’

‘It had crossed my mind,’ Mycroft admitted honestly.

‘Always nice to know what other people think about you,’ Greg stood up and carried his mug through to the sink, ‘But how can you even think that when I just wanted…never mind.’

‘You were cheating on your wife for the better part of a year, it’s not inconceivable that you would-’

‘Why didn’t you want me?’ Greg said suddenly, immediately wishing he could take back the words, hating how needy he sounded.

‘I did,’ Mycroft smoothed the fabric of the shirt across his knee, refusing to look at Greg.

‘But-’

‘But I was not going to be your excuse, and I was not going to be your second choice.’

Greg felt his own expression crumple, ‘You have no idea, do you?’

At this Mycroft lifted his head, focusing those storm coloured eyes on Greg, looking for an answer. After a long moment it became clear that he was not going to find whatever he was looking for, and he stood, handing Greg the untouched tea.

‘Thank you for the tea. But perhaps we should get some sleep.’

Greg nodded, suddenl;y overcome with exhaustion, and he set the mug into the sink. It was only when he finally turned around that he realised Mycroft was still standing by the sofa, watching him warily.

‘You got everything you need?’ Greg asked.

There was a few heartbeats and then Mycroft shook his head slowly. He dropped the shirt onto the sofa and took hold of Greg’s wrist, pulling him towards the bedroom. Greg barely made it to the bed before he collapsed, sleeping coming almost instantly. He didn’t hear Mycroft turn out the light, or the soft pad of Mycroft’s footsteps across the rug, and he didn’t feel the warm weight of Mycroft’s body as it curled up beside his, sleep claiming the politician slowly.


	19. Chapter 19

Greg woke surrounded by warmth and the spicy scent of Mycroft. Leather and orange and coffee and mossy it saturated the sheets he lay on and even the very air in the tiny room. But the bed beside him was empty and while part of him was disapointed, he hadn't expected to wake up beside the other man.

It would have been nice though, if, just for once, he could have.

Instead he streatched and followed the soft hum of a voice speaking and found Mycroft fully dressed in his suit, talking quietly on Greg's mobile. As soon as he realised Greg was within earshot he switched from English to French.

Greg edged past him and reached for the coffee pot, one of the few luxuries he had allowed himself since he moved out of the marital home. In truth it had been the only thing that made his time in 221 bearable. He couldn#t resist a smile as he let the flow of Mycroft's conversation wash over him, and he had a cup of coffee ready to hand to the politician as soon as his call ended a few moments later.

'Apologies for appropriating your mobile,' Mycroft said as he handed it back, 'I saw it was Anthea calling and did not wish to disturb you. The...threat had been neutralised do I no longer require a safe house, so to speak. A car shall be here-'

'At eight to take you to teh Belmont for a debriefing before you meet the Home Secretary at ten,' Greg finished, smirking into his coffee and enjoying the look of surprise on Mycroft's face.

'I...I didn't realise you spoke...spoke...'

Greg took pity on him. It wasn't often that Mycroft was flustered.

'I don't speak French,' he said, 'I AM French.'

He let that sink in for a moment, watching as Mycroft's expression changed from one of comprehension until finally settling on something that was too close to up[set for Greg's liking.

'I had no idea,' he said quietly, the lack of knowledge clearly distressing, 'All this time and I...OH!'

Greg offered Mycroft a softer smile, 'I suppose it just never came up. I mean, all the time we've known each other we mostly talked about your brother and then later on we talked about what we wanted to do to each other as soon as we were alone,' Greg took great pleasuring in the faint blush that bloomed across Mycroft's cheeks, 'And then we stopped talking at all.'

The silence that filled the flat then was heavy with sadness and Greg wondered if he had pushed it too far, if he had just fucked up whatever faint chance of reconciliation the previous night might have brought.

There was the chime of an incoming text and Mycroft fished his watch out of his pocket with a sigh, 'That will be my car.'

Greg just nodded,. watching as Mycroft set his mug down, wishing he could say something that would...he didn't even know what he wanted, other than he did didn't want Mycroft to just leave. He didn't want to return to the silence of the past six months. As Mycroft reached for his coat, Greg stepped forward.

'Myc-'

'Would you be...amenable to...dinner? Will me?' Mycroft asked, not quite looking at Greg.

Well, that had not been what Greg was expecting, and as he floundered for an answer Mycroft grew more distressed.

'Apologies, I didn't mean to overstep-'

'Dinner would be nice,' Greg cut him off and his heart swelled at the relief on Mycroft's face.

'Tonight?' Mycroft ventured cautiously, and Greg couldn't think of a reason why not.

'Where? Your club?'

'I...I thought perhaps...The Connaught?' and it would have taken someone who knew him as well as Greg did to see how nervous he was to suggest it.

'That's a bit...um..'

'Somewhere else?'

'No! No...that's...it's just a bit public, isn't it?;'

Greg regretted the words as soon as he'd said them, but Mycroft rallied well.

'Is there a reason why-'

'No. I...fuck I don't know what I mean,' Greg ran a hand through his hair.

Mycroft just nodded and at the same time Greg's mobile bleeped again.

'I should go,' Mycroft said, although it sounded like there was nothing he wanted to do less.

'I'll see you tonight?' Greg said, only realising his hands were reaching for Mycroft when he saw the other man's eyes opened wider. He instantly dropped them and gave a single nod before Mycroft left.

When he was alone once again he dropped down on teh sofa and took several deep breaths, wondering what the fuck had happened in the last twenty four hours.


End file.
